I don't think that I will ever love this opera, but it is moving, occasionally funny, thought-provoking and vastly entertaining.
I attended two performances, those on Friday 22 and Sunday 31 May. Both of them were fine performances, with a decent production, an excellent conductor and a very good cast.
I don't particularly like traditional productions for frequently-performed operas, because they don't say anything that hasn't been said a thousand times before. But with rarely-performed operas, I don't mind, because of the rarity.
This was a traditional production to the extent that the scenery, costumes and character portrayals are very much what one would expect. But there was good strong personenregie, with the principals acting and interacting, strength in depth with the comprimarios, and some energetic input from the massed ranks of chorus and actors.
I can't say I cared for the way it began. The story actually begins when Cyrano de Bergerac marches into a theatre to stop the show, because he doesn't approve of the actor. This production actually started when the dreadful actor was getting ready in his dressing room, with all sorts of things going on on the side. I particularly remember a male ballet dancer in a gold lame dress, I really didn't need to see that!
But after that it got a lot better; the actual play within the play was a hoot, with angels floating across on wooden clouds, and real fires, and so on.
And then Cyrano arrives (fifteen minutes after his nose). He entered on the left as we looked at the stage, delivered his opening lines and crossed to the right of the stage. At which point the woman behind me started clapping, presumably because where she comes from, people applaud when the star enters. Two thoughts crossed my mind - didn't she notice that nobody else was applauding the star's entrance, and, if you're going to applaud, aren't you supposed to do it as soon as he appears on stage. Fortunately I heard no one applaud his arrival on the Sunday. However, a friend of mine attended the Monday night performance and heard several people doing so. They mustn't have liked the scenery because they failed to applaud that. But I liked it, a lot, although I was not sure about the tree in the final act. It was a nice enough tree, but it had disproportionately large leaves; their falling to symbolise autumn looked cataclysmic.
There are photos here and for the time being here (plus a couple taken at Roland Garros).
I thought the cast was a lot stronger than that fielded by the Royal Opera House. Although it barely seems possible, I found Plácido's performance, especially on Sunday, to be better than any of the five I saw at Covent Garden. Vocally he was rich. Really gorgeous. Often when I hear him I am aware that he is not as young as he was, but I never got that feeling, especially not on Sunday.
Even more impressive was his acting performance. I loved the swashbuckling scenes, where he swashed and buckled and floored his opponents. I liked the intimate scenes even more. I spent a lot of time with my binoculars focused on him, he's so fascinating to watch even when he isn't the centre of attention (even though it did cross my mind that when, for example, there is a scene between Roxanne and Christian, maybe he shouldn't be acting quite so much!)
Roxanne was excellent, sung and played by Nathalie Manfrino. I had thought at Covent Garden that she was a cardboard cut-out, and had not liked the foghorn soprano's voice one bit. I did not realise quite how much I disliked it until I heard Nathalie's voice. It is sufficiently beautiful but with enough steel, and a very even tone, no squalling or shouting.
I enjoyed Saimir Pirgu as Christian. It's a bit of a thankless part, no great opportunity to shine vocally or dramatically, but it takes a decent singer. I had heard and enjoyed him in Gianni Schicchi a couple of years back and I now look forward to his Alfredo next season. An interesting statistic that the age difference between the two leading tenors is forty years. I don't suppose it's a record, but I don't suppose it occurs very often.
One of the problems I have with this opera is that there are seemingly hundreds of cadets from Gascony (or Gazzas, as Mark Elder referred to them at the Covent Garden Insight Evening), and I find it impossible to distinguish one character from another. So I was aware of their being some very good baritone singing, but I can't be sure who was who.
Another problem I have with this opera is that there is very little I can say about the music. I don't dislike it but nor is it memorable. I suppose it is at its most effective as mood music. There are certain moments where the music is powerful, and evocative, perfect for the story. But I am disinclined to seek it out to listen to it. I suspect strongly that it would lose a lot without the visuals. The Navarre Symphony Orchestra sounded pretty good, conducted by Patrick Fournillier (who I had also admired for his Iphigenies in Valencia).
I do wonder how much I would enjoy this opera with a lesser acting-singer in the lead role. Plácido was wonderful. And just for the record, he fell to the floor, twice, as part of his death scene, and he finished with a good roll. He really doesn't have to do this flinging himself to the floor - I'm sure we'd all understand if he merely collapsed into a chair to expire. I noticed when he was walking in to the theatre in Monday that he seemed to be limping slightly. He might just have been stiff from being in the car, but I noticed again on Sunday that as he crossed the stage, he was walking unevenly.
I take away his compelling performance of a desperately tragic story. I spent most of the final act sobbing uncontrollably, much like the men sat either side of me - random strangers. It seems such a waste of two lives. I feel angry at Cyrano for not revealing to Roxanne earlier that it was he who wrote the letters. Okay, he believed that she would not love him, because of his nose. But maybe, as we grow older, we place less emphasis on superficial appearances and we fear loneliness more than anything. But I'll shut up because no words can capture and relate that ache in the way that great words, appropriate music and sensitive acting can.
